This You Will Be The One Worth Knowing

MOTA and other stuff. she/they. ❤️ DMs and Inbox always open!

[hogans-heroes]

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PSA: Please don’t tag things meant for me as Hogan’s Heroes, or it will go in the actual show tag. TY!

[noideae]

Callum Turner as Bill Rohan | Queen & Country (2014)

[guessimherenowtoo]

Read it on AO3 - Clegan, Gale/Marge, Margebuckies

[Previous]

Pt. 3/4 - INTERLUDE - A Brief History

--//--

It didn’t start as anything erotic, but there was always…something. There was some sort of thrill to it, embarrassed excitement rooted around for and yanked out of the forbidden, of the secret; something that made Marge’s stomach swoop, the fear of getting caught warring with the desire to keep going, to keep pushing for more, and the fear losing against desire time and time again. And there was excitement too that it was Gale, sweet and scared and scrappy scabby-kneed Gale Cleven, who always let her push him past his limits like he didn’t know why he wanted her to either – or if he wanted her to push him at all, actually…but then he’s always trusted her like that. Gale doesn’t trust just anybody, after all, and Marge has done plenty of foolish things in her life but she’s never been foolish enough to take that for granted, at least, and she’s still glad for it every single day.

It started with his hair. His mother would only cut it for him every once in a while, when it got too long and shaggy for anyone to ignore anymore, and one day he’d been tugging at it, trying to tuck it behind his ears, shoving it back from his face only for it to flop right back down again. Marge had tied little ribbons around the longest sections he was yanking on and put a flower behind his ear and told him he looked pretty like she did in her Sunday best. He’d pushed her to the ground, dust coating her rump and one of her socks slipping down her skinny ankle as she’d popped up with an indignant, “Hey, I meant it nice!” and shoved him right back. It took him a while to believe her, of course, but he still let her keep doing it whenever she asked until his sullen glaring and bearing with it turned into shy smiles, eventually even turned into him asking her for it first. After that, he stopped asking his mother to cut his hair.

(They hadn’t known then, of course, but with the benefit of hindsight Marge can now recognize that first shy request that maybe she could doll him up again was most likely the last chance they’d had to turn back, and neither of them had even thought to take it.)

After the hair it was her dresses, sometimes, when she could squirrel one away in her school bag. She and Gale would take the long way home through the woods in the afternoon, find a quiet clearing away from the path so he could take off his dusty trousers and his too-big shirts that always smelled of tobacco smoke and his ratty sneakers with worn out gaps all in the soles to stand there barefoot on a carpet of old pine needles and slip soft lavender-sweet cotton on over his head. More often than not he would hurry, trying hard to cover up the rainbowed bruises peppered all over his chest and shoulders and scrawny thighs again with something finer-made than anything his parents could or would ever buy him. 

That first time, Marge had brought him something her mama wouldn’t miss even if she went in the closet looking: Marge’s best Christmas frock, fine green velvet with a cool satin lining and matching covered buttons marching in a long, pretty line all down the back. When she’d tied the wide ribbon belt around Gale’s waist and fluffed up the skirt a little like it might sit if she’d snagged her little crinoline with it, she’d told him, sure as the sun setting through the trees and with her little fists on her hips, “Well, just like I thought – pretty as a postcard.” Gale had blushed pink enough to put that lovely sunset to shame, and thanked her very sweetly, with better manners than any other boy in school could boast. 

They grew up, and they kept playing until Gale didn’t even seem to think anything of it anymore, wearing her things and acting like a well-mannered little lady, though of course they both knew better than to tell any grown-ups what they were at – they wouldn’t understand, the way adults never do.

Years passed like that and one day, for no reason at all besides nature and its course, things changed, as they always do, and not for any reasons they could control.

One summer Gale, always small for his age and too skinny besides, suddenly shot up like a weed. Somehow he turned tall and leggy, without enough muscle or fat on his frame to keep him from looking gangly with the extra inches. Marge stayed petite, and just like that she was too small and he was too big for any of her clothes to fit him anymore. The dismay they’d both felt for the unceremonious end of their favorite game had carried them through many an evening walk home through their woods, disappointment walking alongside them as they’d kicked at pebbles and pinecones and wondered how they were ever going to get to play again. 

Marge’s own growth spurt wasn’t too far behind his in the end, and with it she would grow enough to sort of catch up, but of course such things can only be seen in retrospect. With no knowledge then of what was to come, unsure if they’d ever be able to find a way to make it work again, somewhere in the midst of that long dusty summer circumstances and their own impatience forced them to try something new.

They’d had to wait until they could be alone indoors to give it a shot, after Marge’s first tentative suggestion of the scheme on one particularly morose evening sitting uselessly in their clearing, but some week in late September Marge’s parents had gone to Texas, looking into finding some work down there to get them away from the harsh Wyoming winters. If that first shy request for ribbons in his hair had been the point of no return, then that week spent on their own alone in her room, she’s sure, is the moment to blame for when it all twisted a little…sideways.

With all her dresses suddenly too short for his long torso and far too narrow in the chest and shoulders no matter what they might try, she’d instead offered to put him in her underthings because they, at least, would probably still fit him. His hips were still as slim as ever, and his thighs too — it worked, if only just. Gale had squirmed and blushed in her bed and he’d covered his lap with both hands and Marge had liked that quite a bit in ways she hadn’t had the words for just yet (but the discovery, like her growth spurt, wasn’t too long waiting).

Marge hit her own changes not four months later, dead of winter, and she got a few inches taller but also something new to hide under her sweaters — somethings actually, plural, which made her hold her books to her chest to press it flat like it was supposed to be, the way it had always been before. Gale didn’t seem to notice, but it seemed he was just about the only one. Suddenly there were eyes on her everywhere, men talking about how pretty she’d gotten, women clucking that she’d blossomed and she’d surely be making some man so happy in just a few years’ time. Girls green with envy, and boys learning they liked to look at her whether she wanted them to or not.

Other girls seemed to feel alright with it all when it was their turn, wearing the thinnest sweaters they could get away with even in the freezing cold and leaning over their crossed arms on their desks and batting their eyelashes and soaking up all the attention all that posturing got them. Marge tried to play along, really she did, but she was never very good at pretending – she’d always had different games to play, and only Gale to play them with.

“D’you want my clothes?” Gale had asked her one day seemingly out of the blue, laying in Marge’s bed in a spare set of her intimates while he flicked through her math homework to look for any mistakes. After her growth spurt, of course, she’d had even more things to put him in and he took to wearing her brassieres as happily as he took to wearing everything else, and she always thought he looked very nice in them even without much to fill out the satin cups. “S’only fair.”

“Oh,” she’d said, and that old familiar heat was back in her belly, that shiver of doing something they maybe shouldn’t. But Gale had been laying there in her panties and hose and a brassiere as comfortable as anything, and Marge had felt so sick with herself that she’d have done just about anything to fix it, so she’d done it: picked up his shorts off the floor and shucked her own panties while he raised the homework pages in front of his eyes to preserve her modesty, and when she’d settled the shorts snug around her waist and did up the buttons they’d sat a little loose around her middle but also — everywhere else. She’d looked down at her hips and found the unfamiliar shapes of herself hidden under boxy-cut cotton. She’d hurried out of her brassiere next, had eagerly reached for Gale’s threadbare shirt that was a little too big even on him, and on her it hid every new curve that time and puberty had given her. His trousers were last, pooling too long around her bare feet, and his belt at least could still fit her if she used the extra holes he’d had to punch in it the previous winter when things had gotten even leaner than before. She’d stood there in the middle of her bedroom in Gale’s clothes that swallowed her up and hid her alien body from sight while he laid on her frilly pink childhood bed in her underwear that did nothing but reveal with sweet obscenity what puberty had done to change him, too.

“Look real handsome, Marge,” he’d told her, eyes dark over the top of her homework page he’d been holding in both hands. He’d spread his legs then, invitation, and Marge had knelt between them with another shiver in her belly, this one strong enough to shake through her hands too when she’d put them on the silken insides of his thighs. 

“Well. Pretty gal like you oughta have a handsome fella, right?”

Gale had set the homework carefully on her nightstand, his jaw working and a blush crawling up his naked chest to pretty up his cheeks better than any cream rouge ever could.

“That’s right. So…”

“So I’ll be your fella,” Marge had said, breathless and watching Gale struggle to breathe normally too, “anytime you wanna be my girl.”

No one was surprised the day they started going steady (even though they didn’t know the half of it).

[whatcannotbespoken]

Fight or Flight Chapter 14

Chapter 14 of Fight or Flight is up now.

It's a surprise Marge POV chapter. I swear it gets happier after this.

--------------------------

Marge got up a little late. It had taken her some time to fall asleep the night before. She was worrying about Gale, wondering if having John here would help. She thought he needed someone who’d been there, who’d gone through what he’d gone through. Whatever it was, whatever was eating away him now, Gale wouldn’t let her follow him into it. Maybe he’d let John. 

Marge got herself ready and started down the stairs to get breakfast going. She heard a door click shut as she got to the base of the stairs. She rounded the corner to find John, in his robe, having just shut Gale’s door. He stopped for a moment when he saw her and looked a little surprised.

“He’s asleep now,” he said, and gave her a perfunctory half a smile as he moved around her on his path to the den. 

Marge didn’t know quite what to think. She supposed she was glad that Gale was asleep. She thought it seemed a little familiar of John to be with him in the guest room, but then she supposed they had been roommates in flight school, in England, even in the POW camp, so it must not be that strange for him. And she was glad he was asleep, so glad. He had been so foggy for the last week, she wasn’t sure when the last time was that he’d actually been to sleep. 

She felt hopeful as she started breakfast. It was a beautiful summer day. A few little puffy white clouds hung in the sky and cast their happy round shadows on the swaying grass as they moved across the prairie. She watched them as she cracked eggs into a bowl. Gale was asleep. John knew what to do. It would be okay now, she thought.

[swifty-fox]

“Still time to run.”

John looks into the mirror, past his own stony eyes and towards Curt’s equally blue ones, up on a stool so he can help fasten the straps around John’s shoulders, anchoring the his pauldron. “They’d shoot me out of suspicion before I hit the gates.” 

Curt tsks, “I’d make enough'a distraction.”

John grins, turning and cupping both of Curt’s cheeks and pressing a smacking kiss to his lips. “It’s my wedding, Curt, ain’t that something to smile about?”

“A political marriage seems more like a business deal than a party to me.”

“How about for all the wine we’re about to drink.”

“Human wine tastes like shit.”

John flicks the end of Curt’s ear, the delicately pointed tips not all that sensitive but certainly vulnerable to attack. 

Curt ducks, gracefully dignified, “Your sister sent a raven this morning. She knows you’re being insulted; if you want to call his play, she will stand by you.” 

John snorts, turning back to the mirror and examinging his armor. “And waste the party?”

“Bucky.”

If John has been allowed his way he’d be dressed in the lighter battle armor he was used to– scarred and dented and decorated by every time it had saved his life. He’d go out there and show them that even if peace was right around the corner, John and his kin were still ever-ready. Naturally, the notion had been vetoed and instead John had been buffed and shined and stuck into a suit of bronze colored armor carved all over with vines that tapered to drapes of berries over his shoulders, his chestplate. The chainmail beneath a white steel, his shoulder draped with a red cloth stitched with gold thread.

They’d woven blackberries in his hair. The scent drifts around him with each step, sweet and perfrectly ripe. 

He glances at Curt again who was now busy fastening his own bronze armor, “A curious turn of events, Edith having your ear over mine.”

“She says she figured you’d actually consider it if there were witnesses.”

“Almost sounds like she’s hoping I’ll rise to the bait.”

“Humans can’t even make peace without spitting in your eye.”

John dons his weapons belt; fits it with his sword and dagger. “It’s a political marriage, Curt. So what if they think they’re offering me some goddamn offense. A prince is as good as a princess.” 

“Maybe after the nuptiuals, but they’ll be snickering all through the ceremony.” 

“So let them. I’m here to end this damn war; not give in to the opinions of small human lords and sycophants.” 

Curt settles down into one of the chairs at a table still covered with the remnants of their breakfast. He drags an armored finger back and forth across his top lip, eyes gazing off at some halfway mark, thoughtful. “We fought against him, you know. At Red River; that commander that shattered our left flank.”

so like. John's an elf

[amiserableseriesofevents]

to the point of invention, ch.32

John has a thousand things to say to him — I'm sorry, forgive me, I love you. He lands on, “Hey,” as he leans against the counter right beside him.

Gale turns to look at him and one of his special smiles, the soft ones that crinkle the corners of his eyes and pull gently at his lips, the ones he reserves only for John, blossoms on his face. “Look who it is,” he says. “Stone in my shoe.”

[callumturnerinc]

[meyerlansky]

NOW THAT THE WAR IS HERE – r. n. currey, 1940.

[austgallery]

𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝒻𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓋𝒾𝑒𝓌𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒜𝓊𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃 🤍

𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒷𝑜𝓎 🥹

𝑒𝓃𝒿𝑜𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝓅𝒽𝑜𝓉𝑜𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝑒 🥰

𝒾 𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊 🩵

(𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 1)

[mota-collab]

Welcome to the MOTA Hope Weekend 2026: Day 1

Welcome to this event first day. We're excited to see the hopeful fan works start to come in! Here's the hope-set for today:

Art: The Sun - Edvard Munch (1911)

Thorpe Abbots - Shirt - A letter arrives

"I don't want this moment to end." - "I forgive you." - "How did you ...?"

Song: Miyazaki - Paris Paloma

Artwork 1 by @beepbeepcomeatmebruv

Artwork 2 by @swifty-fox

Artwork 3 by @sorgenfalter

Artwork 4 by @freebooter4ever

Remember, you decide how you want to take inspiration from the hope set and which day you post. You can also share any medium inspired by the theme hope independent of the sets.

Tag the artists if you use their art as inspo, and remember to tag @mota-collab and please use the #MOTA HOPE 2026 tag under your post to make sure we see it and can reblog.

Also, if you're writing a fic and posting it on AO3, please add it to our collection - MOTA Hope Weekend 2026!

[austgallery]

𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘧 "𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴"

𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘴 𝘣𝘺 𝘬𝘺𝘭𝘦 𝘬𝘢𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯.

[meyerlansky]

You're right, Lieutenant Macon. This is gonna be close. But it's not impossible.

bonus:

[hogans-heroes]

Will there be a final chapter of the age regression fic? I desperately want to know how it ends!

Hello darling! YES there definitely will be and I’m actively working on it, I’m SO sorry it’s taking me so long, things have been crazy for months and I’ve hardly been able to write any fic, trying to get back into it 🥹 thank you for the ask, I hope to reward you soon.

[urie]

i love to have a hobby

[urie]

my hobby is looking at two guys and saying Now whats all this then

[toddkinn]

who else just really really loves talking about gale and john from the show masters of the air

[rpfwasfine]

the rpf was there. it didn’t change anything. it didn’t save anyone. there were just too many forces against it. but it still matters that the rpf was there.

[rpfwasfine]

and it was fine.

[bloodclotbitch]